A Story of Autumns
by anacutelurker
Summary: "Nine autumns ago, I met a French boy on one sunny day. I thought his smile right then was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. That's because I had yet to see their smiles right now." An AU.


**Hello! Well, this is my second fic. I hope it won't fail too much. ^^; I especially need to thank someone who's being so kind to beta this; Megan Lo Saurus. Without her help, this one would contain a horrible amount of grammar mistakes. orz.**

**Please enjoy~**

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><p>He comes again today. He comes almost every day. The captivating boy I met nine autumns ago.<p>

He was an eight-year old boy who had just moved from France. He scanned the field until his sapphire eyes focussed on me. I smiled and waved to him shyly. To my surprise, he smiled back and ran up to me, settling himself on the vermillion blanket of dry leaves next to me. He looked up.

"I'm Francis, nice to meet you!"

That bright and cheerful smile, I readily admitted, was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. I nodded at him in response. Right then I was sure I would remember that moment all my life, because never before had I felt this happy.

Since that day, he came often. Sometimes he brought along his friends; a green-eyed brunette who always smiled cheerfully, and a loud-mouthed albino whose grins reminded me so much of the Cheshire cat's; both spoke in thick accents I couldn't recognise. They would play, chasing one another around; tell true and made-up stories, fight, and back to play. But they soon grew up and left one by one. Only, the French boy stayed.

Today, he is still wearing his high school uniform and has brought a book and a pen with him. I've long since discovered that the book is a journal. He uses it for writing (despite the blunt statement of his red-eyed friend that it was an unawesome sissy hobby, to which Francis replied that he was simply being romantic). He writes in his mother tongue so no one will understand what's written in it. I would like to remind him that he is living in a place where some people do speak French. He seemed to have realised this, too. He frowned in thought for a second before a smile broke its way back through his face and he decided that it didn't matter.

So, as ever, he leans his back against me and writes calmly. I can easily peer over his shoulder and read everything (I'm sure he won't mind). His journal tells me stories of his daily life. From toys, candies, and football to poems, romance, and (still) football: from an adorable child to a handsome teenager, I've watched him grow.

Recently, I notice one particular person who appears regularly in his journal. I know that he's writing about this person whenever his eyes lit brighter, his smile stretches wider, and his whole expression turns entirely gentle. This person must be really special to him.

'We never stop fighting.' He writes on one occasion. 'Always have something to argue about.'

Oh, really?

'He despises anything French.' His hand busily scribbles each word into the book. He suddenly flashes a mischievous grin. 'Too bad we are obliged to learn French.'

I have to contain a chuckle at this. Ah, but he seems so fond of this person.

His face suddenly turns uncertain. 'I know this is ridiculous. But-' he tentatively pauses. 'This person makes the British accent sound so lovely.'

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><p>It is Sunday and Francis is enjoying his day off. I rarely see him in the morning, mostly because either he has early classes to attend or he is busy hanging out with his friends. So this occasion is not to be wasted.<p>

I sway from side to side in rhythm with the birdsong, watching the falling leaves. It's an oddly sunny day for autumn and Francis occupies his usual spot, snuggling to me in search of more warmth. Instead of writing his journal, he is doing something entirely else. He is drawing.

I know that Francis likes to draw and that he's really good at it. He draws everything – his family, his friends, his house, his school building, and his surroundings – including me. Sometimes, he becomes quiet, incredibly absorbed in his art. I enjoy the moments when he's drawing. But then again, I enjoy our every moment together.

However, something is different today. He is unusually silent – so much that I almost think he has fallen asleep. It is only the soft scratching noise of his pencil that gives it away. I'm curious as to what he is drawing. It must be an incredibly complicated sketch if it needs that much attention. I can't see it because his head is blocking the view. When he moves aside slightly, I catch a glimpse of something that looks like the figure of a boy.

After a rather long wait, he puts his pencil aside and groans in satisfaction, stretching to relieve some stiffness. He holds up his sketch book before him, tilting his head to one side to examine the result. That way I can see it, too, clearly.

It's a sketch of someone unfamiliar to me. He appears to be a boy around Francis's age. He has this look of a diligent student, the sort who wears his uniform pristine and regulation-appropriate – despite his messy, short hair. The reason Francis made a sketch of someone glaring so intently (intensified by the, um, fantastical size of his eyebrows) remains a mystery to me, until-

Francis delicately traces his fingertips on the outline of the figure; a gesture that declares just who this person is and I begin to understand.

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><p>Francis is a helpless romantic. As if writing journal is not enough, he writes poems. He is not a literary person, but his poems are full of the kind of emotion that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. When he reads his poems, I can listen to him forever.<p>

Occasionally, despite his age, he reads books about princes, princesses, knights, and dragons. I wonder if Francis into fairy tales. As if reading my thoughts, he plainly says, maybe to himself, "He likes fairy tales."

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><p>Today, they fought. Nothing new, really. They fight over the silliest things whenever they can. But today, they fought like never before. From the prominent red mark on Francis's cheek, he must have said some incredibly careless words to the other. And maybe vice versa, for his expression indicates that he has been wounded – not physically, but inside.<p>

"He hates me _too_, huh?" he laughs bitterly and shuts his journal. "I'm such an idiot."

Francis is popular; his good looks guarantee that. And whether consciously or not, his pleasant temperament attracts people to him. When he tries, he can charm even the most difficult personalities. He always knows what to do. But this time, just when he needs it the most, he doesn't.

He stares up the cloudy sky blankly, maybe trying to find out a way to fix it. I get the feeling that this is his – no, _their_ – only chance. It's now or never for them to choose whether to leave it and keep pretending, or to quit being stubborn and start everything anew. Now, or they will remain apart forever.

Francis goes home late that night. Despite his immense tiredness, he will not sleep well.

He visits me again the next day, and the day after. He does nothing but observe the narrow road with a blank expression until he goes home when it's late enough. Today is no exception. After hours of standing, he leans and slides down to sit on the damp ground, burying his face in his folded arms.

I'm always happy whenever Francis comes around. Today, though, I am not. He should go home, because, for god's sake, it has started to rain! Never listens to me, he stays like that for I think hours and the rain doesn't subside. I feel guilty for not being able to shield him from the icy drops. A mixture of rain and mud soaks his clothes, and still he doesn't budge.

He finally moves when the water suddenly stops pouring onto him. He turns his head up slowly to see a pair of trousers followed up by a buttoned shirt, an arm holding up an umbrella, and those eyes he missed so much. A sketch of a boy instantly leaps into my mind; he's here.

It's as though the words have left him.

"I always knew frogs like being in the rain," the smaller teen mutters, looking anywhere but Francis.

"Arthur?" says Francis after a five-second silence. "I… what are you doing here?"

The other boy, Arthur, snorts. He glares at Francis, gritting his teeth angrily.

Using his unoccupied hand, Arthur throws something, which looks like a sheet of paper, to Francis. "This!" he barks. "If this is yet another joke of yours, I'm leaving!" With that said, he turns around quickly, and is in the middle of taking his third step away when someone grabs the back of his shirt. He stops, but doesn't turn back.

There's no way Francis would let him leave. He will keep his hand on the other's waist the whole day if he has to.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out. "For everything I said, I am truly sorry. I didn't mean any of them. Except-"

There's a pause while Francis is trying to decide if he really should say it. He tightens his grip on the other's shirt before continues. "Except when I said I loved you."

The words come out in whisper, yet Arthur seems to hear it perfectly clearly.

When there is no reply, Francis lets go of the shirt and withdraws his hand. His face twists in a dejected expression.

"It's okay. I know you hate me. Just-" he exhales. "Please, forgive me."

Francis hears a rustling sound and feels cool fingers hesitantly brush his cheek. Arthur has eventually looked at him. Maybe a frown will always present in his features, but those green eyes reveal every emotion he so desperately hides.

"Francis." He kneels down to Francis's eye level and leans in. "If only I could keep hating you."

The kiss is neither desperate nor passionate. It's like a simple act executed just to get a point across. It lasts for a second, maybe two, before they part.

Blushing profusely, Arthur realises that somehow his fingers have tangled themselves in those long, wavy strands. When he speaks, his words come in a mumble. "Don't tell me you waited here every day. You could have come to my house instead, you fool."

Francis smirks in response. "Did you want me to come to your house?"

He gasps at the painful sensation of his hair coming threateningly close to separation from his scalp.

"Don't get so cocky." Arthur shoots him a glare.

"_Oui_, _oui_!" He grimaces. "I still value my life, that's why I didn't go. I knew how you would react upon seeing me anywhere near your house. Besides, why didn't _you_ call me or, at least, come sooner? I almost thought you would never forgive me."

The red hue on those cheeks deepens more. "I-I didn't think to call you-" he sputters. "It's not my fault that my idiot brothers hid the letter! I just got the chance to read it a moment ago."

"And you came running to me?" Francis smiles teasingly, amused to see how flustered Arthur has become.

"Stupid frog."

He steals a kiss on Arthur's forehead. "_Your_ stupid frog."

Nine autumns ago, I met a French boy on one sunny day. I thought his smile right then was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. That's because I had yet to see their smiles right now. Today, it's raining. They're dirty with mud and barely fit under the too-small umbrella next to an almost bare tree: probably not the most romantic scene for a heartfelt confession. But Francis is happy. They are happy. _We_ are happy.

A freezing breeze blows and I shake the last leaves off my branches. They fall scattered, joining the others that have previously fallen. One of them happens to land on a piece of paper – wet, the sides crumpled and the ink bleeding out, leaving the message to slowly fade.

_Under a maple tree up the hill, a frog is begging for the princess's forgiveness. –F_

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><p><strong>How was it? Failed? Let me know. Please leave your review. Thanks for reading! :3<strong>


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